


stuffed penguins are a sad boy's best friend

by orphan_account



Series: thieving sons of [3]
Category: One Direction (Band), Radio 1 RPF
Genre: M/M, and mentions of mild self-harm, the most angsty thing thus far, warning for a mental breakdown type thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-23
Updated: 2014-11-23
Packaged: 2018-02-26 18:29:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2662070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Louis has a Bad Day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	stuffed penguins are a sad boy's best friend

**Author's Note:**

> like i said in the tags, there's a breakdown in this with some bad thoughts, including some self-harm-y stuff. so like, you've been warned.

Today is Bad.

The capital B is important, at least in Louis’ mind. He woke up exhausted and antsy and irritable. He’s just so _annoyed_ and he doesn’t know what to do with it all.

He’s already snapped at Harry twice just for being concerned by his relentless tapping and fidgeting and stomping and grumbling and—well, he’s just overall negative today and he can’t help it. Part of him thinks he should hold up a bank, but the rest of him decides going from his bed to the couch is more than enough of a hassle.

Harry goes about his morning routine while Louis stares at the TV, nothing playing. He comes in with his breakfast and moves Louis’ feet to sit at the end of the couch. They watch news until Harry deems it too depressing—less than a minute of reporting—and then switch over to their running marathon of The Office.

Louis accidentally kicks Harry in the stomach trying to get comfortable, which makes Harry spill his orange juice on Louis’ bare feet and the cuffs of his sweatpants, and it’s an entire ordeal Louis could have lived without. Holding his breath, Louis gets up. Harry’s apologies follow him out of the room.

It isn’t Harry’s fault, he reminds himself. He still slams the bathroom door shut.

After he turns on the water in the tub and kicks off his pants, Louis sits on the lid of the toilet and stares at his feet. They’re not very interesting. He tries moving each of his toes individually, and then he realizes how stupid he’s being and shoves them under the water. It’s too hot, and he burns himself but doesn’t move to change the temperature. All he’s doing is rinsing them off; it doesn’t matter.

He shuts the water off as violently as he can, which just has him slamming his wrist into the edge of the tub. Groaning, exasperated with _everything_ , he climbs in the tub and plops down. His hands work their way through his hair over and over, press against his eyes that are certainly _not_ filling with tears, and pinch the sides of his neck until he’s sure it’ll bruise.

He’s definitely crying at this point, racking sobs making it hard to breathe. He turns on his side and buries his face in the sleeve of his sweatshirt. Light blooms behind his eye from how hard he’s pressing them to his arm.

“Louis?” Harry’s voice is muffled by the door, and he taps against the wood lightly. “Are you okay?”

Louis tries to take a deep breath and ends up coughing against a gross amount of snot. Harry appears at the side of the tub, kneeling on the tile.

“Lou, what’s wrong?” he asks, which just sets Louis off more. He doesn’t _know_ what’s wrong. He tries to say as much but almost starts hyperventilating from the effort so he stays quiet and lets Harry pet his hair and rub his shoulder and just touch any part of him he can.

It takes a long time for Louis to calm down. And he’s not even fully settled, he only stopped crying, but it’s enough that Harry looks relieved when Louis finally removes his face from his sweatshirt. He’s probably beet red and he feels gross and sweaty and puffy and his sleeve is wet and shiny with snot. Harry puts a hand on either side of his face and kisses his forehead a couple times, though, so he can’t be _too_ disgusting. Or Harry has a high tolerance for sweaty, snotty boys. It’s entirely possible.

“Do you feel any better?” Harry asks. Louis tries pressing his hair down as he assesses his mind. Everything feels like it’s moving too fast, his head is stuffy and wobbly, and there’s this tightness in his chest he can’t get rid of. He’s close to throwing up, too.

“No,” Louis manages, voice rough and watery, before he starts crying again. This time, his face is buried in Harry’s chest, the edge of the tub digging into his own uncomfortably, Harry’s arms wrapped around his shoulders tight enough to hurt.

It goes on like this for an hour. Louis feels even worse because Harry has to leave for a minute to cancel his plans for the day, but he doesn’t want to be alone. He can’t be alone. He’s terrified of what he might do.

Finally Louis is out of tears. He can’t feel his face. Harry keeps rearranging his hair and rubbing his arms, but Louis can’t do much except sniffle and stare at the floor. His brain isn’t working right.

“Harry,” he mumbles without knowing what he wants to say. Harry hums and keeps his fingers moving through Louis’ hair. They’re both in the tub, and Louis can’t remember when that happened, but he thinks it works. “I'm sorry I made you stay home.”

“It’s fine, Lou,” Harry says, just as quiet.

The tap is dripping on their feet.

“Is it?”

“Yes, it is,” Harry says with the ghost of a laugh. Louis frowns. He doesn’t need Harry laughing at him. A stab of irritation goes through him, but he’s too tired to act on it. “I was only going to see Nick, and I can do that any time.”

“So I didn’t ruin things with Ben?”

“No.”

“Good. He still hasn’t bought you that boat. You deserve a boat.”

Now Harry does laugh, but it’s not _at_ Louis. It’s just a happy chuckle. “Thank you.”

“Anytime,” Louis says seriously.  He blinks his eyes open—and when did he even close them? “Harry?”

“Yes, Louis?”

“I think I'm losing my mind,” he whispers, like maybe if he doesn’t say it loud it won’t be true. Harry shifts around, jostling Louis unpleasantly; he still might throw up, and he doesn’t think Harry would be so forgiving of Louis vomiting on him.

“Maybe,” Harry muses. Louis lifts one of his hands, balled into a fist, just to drop it on Harry’s chest in protest.

“That’s not what you’re supposed to say,” he insists. “You’re supposed to say, ‘No way, Lou, you’re the sanest person I know. No way have you lost your marbles.’”

“Okay,” Harry says, exaggerated patience in his voice. “No way, Lou. You are the _sanest_ person I know. There is _no way_ you lost your marbles.”

“You don’t have to be an ass about it,” Louis grumbles. Harry pats his cheek. They don’t talk for a while, although Harry starts humming something like he does when he’s bored. Louis stretches his legs as much as he can, which, to be honest, is almost all the way, and then starts sitting up and fixing his clothes. But. He needs to put on pants. And change his shirt.

So does Harry.

Stiffly, they leave the tub and go to their respective rooms. Harry emerges faster.

“I'm making you some toast,” he calls as he walks past Louis’ door. Louis sighs, not entirely sure he could stomach a single crumb. There’s no stopping Harry.

Louis’ just found one of Zayn’s sweaters when he hears a knock. It’s not at his door but the one to the apartment. He tugs the fabric over his head and steps into a clean (ish) pair of pants in time to hear Harry open the door and invite whoever’s there inside.

Louis sighs again. He hopes it’s not Liam, who would physically wrap Louis in blankets and force a thermometer into his mouth. Or Zayn, who might just keep a sharp eye on him. Or Niall, who would try and get Louis to go out, because that’s his solution to any problem of his own.

There’s a knock on Louis’ door just as he’s reaching for the knob. He freezes, breath catching and causing another coughing fit.

“Are you dying in there?”

Louis had just caught his breath but recognizing the voice, he chokes on air and has to sit on his bed before he passes out. That’s Nick’s voice outside his door.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Louis asks, raising his wrecked voice as much as he can, because he is not opening the door for Nick to see him looking so rough.

“Harry said you didn’t feel well,” Nick replies. That’s not an answer. Louis sniffs and wipes his nose on the back of his hand, staring at the door. It’s not locked; Nick could just walk in if he decided to be bold enough. Something rustles, and then Nick’s saying, “I hope you feel better,” and walking away.

Louis stays on his bed for another minute before his curiosity gets the best of him. He creeps over to his door and drops to the carpet to peer underneath to check for feet.

No feet, but there is _something_ there. Opening the door, Louis jumps when the something falls into the room.

 It’s a foot-tall stuffed penguin.

Louis pokes at one of its orange feet, mouth twisting. He can’t decide how to feel about it. On the one hand, he isn’t the biggest fan of stuffed animals; their eyes are always empty and creepy. On the other hand, he likes having things to squish against his chest when he sleeps; most of the time he uses Harry, but Harry is bony and also bigger than him.

Picking up the penguin, Louis squeezes it. It makes a weird, vaguely bird-like noise that startles him into dropping it. He stares at it for a long moment before he decides. He loves it.

Nick is with Harry in the kitchen when Louis ventures out carefully, the penguin cradled against his chest. Harry’s leaning beside the oven, Nick at the table, and both of them look at Louis as soon as he’s in the room. It’s unnerving. Louis goes to stand next to Harry, resting his head on his shoulder and effectively hiding his face from Nick.

“I decided you need to eat more than toast, so I'm making a pizza,” Harry says. “It’s just cheese, though.”

Louis shrugs, which Harry mimics, effectively dislodging him. Mean. He looks at Nick, and Nick is already looking at him, almost-but-not-quite smiling.

“Did you buy this?” Louis asks, lifting the arm with the toy. Nick says nothing, just taps his fingers on the table. Harry reaches for the penguin, but Louis twists away, frowning at him. “Mine.”

“I just want to look at it,” Harry says, pouting like the oversized child he is. Now that Louis is mostly stable, Harry’s mothering is mostly gone.

“Look with your eyes, not your hands,” Nick says. Louis glances over at him, surprised because he was about to say the same thing, and receives such a warm smile he drops his eyes to the floor. He still feels weird.

“Maybe I have eyes on my hands,” Harry argues.

“You’re not in Beetlejuice, Harold.”

The oven timer beeps before Harry can do more than open his mouth. He holds up a threatening finger and then turns to retrieve Louis’ pizza.

Louis chances another glance at Nick. The man is watching Harry struggle to put on an oven mitt with blatant amusement, giving Louis the chance to study him. He looks put-together, like he had gone out before he came to the apartment. Louis’ mind briefly entertains the idea that Nick went out just to get the penguin, but that’s very ridiculous and very self-centered.

“Here you go!” Harry exclaims, regaining Louis’ attention as he holds out a plate of pizza. There are two small slices billowing steam. Louis takes it unhappily. Harry pulls a stern face. “Eat at least one piece.”

Huffing, Louis goes to the living room and drops to the floor, setting the plate on the coffee table. An episode of The Office is still paused on the screen and he roots around in the couch until he finds the remote to hit play. As the show resumes, Harry and Nick join him, Harry on the floor beside him and Nick stretched out on the couch.

Louis doesn’t start eating until the next episode starts and the pizza is cold, but he’s able to trick his stomach into accepting both slices with the distraction of the television. Harry reclines back against the couch, pulling Louis into his side when the pizza is gone. Louis mostly goes willingly, only pausing to shoot Nick a look that he hopes conveys the message to not even think about messing with him today. Nick is too busy on his phone to notice.

Sometime between the finale of the third season and the beginning of the fourth, Louis gets sick of the floor. Harry drifted off twenty minutes earlier, actually falling to the floor without waking up, and Louis is also cold. He clutches the penguin to his chest and glances back at Nick once, twice, three times. The fourth time he looks back, Nick blinks down at him questioningly.

“This means nothing,” Louis warns. Before Nick has the chance to respond, Louis climbs up and wriggles into the space between Nick and the back of the couch. He only meant to lie behind Nick, but Nick lets out a sigh and opens an arm so Louis can curl against his side, which he does hesitantly. With his head on Nick’s shoulder and Nick’s arm around his back, Louis feels warm and a little fuzzy.

“For someone so skinny, you’re very comfortable,” he observes in a mumble. Nick huffs something that might be a laugh.

“Thanks.”

Just before Louis falls asleep, he squeezes the penguin so it makes the weird noise again. Nick startles.

“Funny.”

Louis smiles into Nick’s shirt. He knows.


End file.
